“Come on, old girl,” she muttered to herself as she leapt from the wardrobe and landed wrong on her ruined leg; her knee buckled, nearly pitching her to the floor.
Gritting her teeth, she straightened and twitched all of Seraphina’s fine gowns back into place within the wardrobe before gently easing the doors closed. “Just a little more.”
She worked quickly, hobbling toward the balcony doors next and flinging them open. A bitter wind rushed in, seeking to slice straight through her clothing. She snatched up the queen’s fine sheets, knotting them together with clumsy, shaking fingers, and hauled the makeshift rope over the balcony rail.
By the time Coreto’s men finished breaking down the door, she was already lounging on Seraphina’s bed, staring up at the silk canopy arching overhead. Her now empty flask lay on the baremattress beside her. The world around her shimmered, softening into that rosy glow.
Movement whirled around her. Heavy footsteps against plush carpet. Glass shattering underfoot. “They are not here,” someone growled. “It is just the Spymaster.”
“Just the Spymaster,” she softly repeated, chuckling at the words. “Yes!” she added, punching a hand in the air and fluttering her fingers at the traitors she couldn’t be bothered to even sit up and look at. “It is I! The Spymaster!”
The slow, careful tread of measured steps approached her. A face swam into view. Lord Threston, the Duke of Coreto himself. She would know that silver hair and icy stare anywhere.
“Oh, hello,” she greeted him.
His frown deepened, etching itself into his features. “Where are they?”
She widened her eyes up at him and asked, “Where are who?”
As fast as a striking snake, the duke’s hand shot out and gripped her by the collar of her shirt. Another laugh spilled from her lips as the man hauled her upward into a sitting position and drew his face close to hers. “Donotplay coy with me.”
Over his shoulder, she saw men on the balcony, craning their heads to peer over the railing. The sheets she had tied to it swung uselessly in the wind, taunting them, surely making them question.
Had the Queen of Elmoria actuallyclimbeddown from such a great height?
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling again. “Or what?” she asked Coreto aside, flashing him another brilliant smile. “We both know you’re not going to hurt me.”
At those words, the duke grew quite still. Within that nearness, his eyes searched hers. “And what makes you so sure of that?”
Her amusement welled up inside her, bubbling over before she could stop it. It was all so funny—so terribly,terriblyfunny—that she couldn’t help but laugh again. Coreto’s eyes narrowed further in an expression she knew all too well.
The expression of someone wondering just what was wrong with her.
But how could she not laugh? Not when she knew the Duke of Coreto’sgreatsecret.
“Because,” she sing-songed, fighting to keep her voice low, “you are faaaar too proud to kill a member of your own flesh and blood.” Lifting her hand, she gently booped the usurper on the nose and named him, “Father.”
All her life, everyone had thought she was a woman with no name. No father. No family. The mere bastard of a kitchen wench. But the reality was so, so much worse. And somehow, that made her want to laugh, because shedidhave a name.
She was a Threston. Olivia Threston—the bastard daughter of her best friend’s greatest enemy.
Chapter fifty-three
Tristan
The city burned.
Smoke smeared the sky over the harbor, rising in thick, oily columns. People ran in every direction, faces pale, eyes wide. A woman staggered past with a child on each hip. An old man stumbled and fell to his knees, hands outstretched toward him as he thundered by.
“Please! Sir! Please—”
Tristan’s fingers spasmed on the reins.Lord, forgive me.
He couldn’t slow. Couldn’t stop. He had one task: save FatherPerero.
And survive.
Olivia’s face drifted through his mind. Beautiful. Sharp. Amber eyes that missed nothing. Lips made for laughing and that smile that had always made him weak at the knees.
